Stingy Stories

The story of all of us seems to be a hint of grays, white and black. Our hearts have either flared at least once, or have hurt unintentionally.

We share everything that brings to the beloved, to share with the beloved that we share our common share. These are the ashes left after the flames: bus tickets, train tickets, movie tickets, concert tickets, the first dinner meal to be eaten in the restaurant, the accumulation of years every month maybe three to four times the mutual love of the thick letter of the perfume envelopes.

All the whiteness stored, all the remaining words and letters are poured into the day, again smiling, eyes are examined by shining. That moment is not the cravings of that period, we often come across as watered down purity. The ash in the heart has cooled, and the water in us has deepened. Our methane skin is thicker

When you think of ash, you should think of smoking residues. They are the ones that remain after something that has been destroyed by the flame. According to the precision of the touch, the trace can be passed immediately or leaves a gray spot behind. It is also a virtue to be in peace with that gray stain. Ha in your dress, ha in your shirt, ha in the heart.

In his script, the love he could not have forgotten had brought a sign or even a souvenir. His message contained a forbidden sex. Because he could not express these words that would not be taken into the mouth, he thought that he was holding a messenger.

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